#i. anonymous.

     he has his feet kicked up on the table in front of him, working a little knife into the last curves of what used to be a block of wood and was now a small statuette resembling ireena. 

     there’s a few spread out in front of him, little versions of their friends, a few with paint drying on them.

          “ hm? oh. i don’t mind. come on, sit down. ”

          “ oh -- i’m still. . .just getting a feel for it. ”

     his playing from before has slowed to idly plucking a tune on the strings, nonsense chords from his fingertips as he leans back against the side of the carriage carrying them to vallaki. they’re gathering ismark and packing their things from the evening -- a hush has fallen over the vistani camp now that he isn’t playing anymore.

     this feels so surreal. he’s got to be dreaming, right? he’s absolutely dreaming. he’s still in the blood on the vine tavern and he’s dreaming.

           “ this doesn’t feel real. i think i’m losing my mind.”

listen, someone’s gotta do the dirty work and he’s already covered in dirt and grime, so why not. he doesn’t see a problem with it. it’s something he needs for his work and he takes his components as seriously as he does his spellbook. this fucker isn’t going the arcane focus route, no way, no how.